


Shades

by context_please



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergent, F/M, M/M, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-24 23:36:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4938259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/context_please/pseuds/context_please
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athelstan is too busy concentrating on begging for his life to notice the heathen’s eyes, at first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shades

**Author's Note:**

> Why yes, I am still alive. Sorry for the complete lack of updates, but here I am! Life's been pretty shit and I'm only coming out of my slump now, so have something brand new!
> 
> On a happier note, welcome to my tribute to Travis Fimmel's Eyes. Do enjoy.

Athelstan is too busy concentrating on begging for his life to notice the heathen’s eyes, at first.

Now it’s all he can see, as the man turns to him, lips twisted into a mirthless smirk. His eyes are the blue of a bright summer’s day, peering at Athelstan with barbarian glee and no soul. They are empty and full, steady on him. Steady and sure as his steps on the path to the shore.

Athelstan watches his home disappear into the distance, black and orange lingering for miles, and looks into summer blue eyes.

What right do a soulless heathen eye’s have to the colour of God’s most beautiful season?

 

 

 

When Ragnar Lothbrok pulls him onto the steady, stationary dock, Athelstan wants to weep in thanks. People crowd around them, boxing Athelstan in and groping him curiously, beyond the reach of Ragnar’s eyes.

The heathen himself is greeted by cheers of triumph and wonder. He is a hero, it seems. Perhaps killing and burning is what those demons value most. But how could God let people so violent and vicious go unpunished? How could He, in all His wisdom, allow Athelstan’s fellow monks to be slaughtered and sold?

Ragnar’s smirk is nothing more than a pull of his skin: his eyes are pale as ice and twice as cold.

 

 

 

When Athelstan is tied to a post by the rope on his neck, like a common animal, he shifts anxiously.

The wind is cold, ripping through his robes like they are naught but strings. Athelstan is used to the English cold, used to the costal wind screaming through the halls of Lindisfarne. But it is different here, where the mountains funnel the wind and Pagan traditions carry upon it, threatening to whisk away the Bible in his clutches. Ragnar Lothbrok brings his wife and children forward, and they are all fair of hair with their sky in their eyes. Ragnar’s daughter, thick dress and long locks flowing with her movement, looks like a young Eve, full of innocence and the potential for sin. Ragnar’s wife is a siren, and his son is naught but belligerent anger. Still, Ragnar’s eyes have become the frosty blue of an English lake, catching clear and crisp in the dull Pagan light.

 

 

 

When the leader of the village chastises him, Ragnar’s eyes change again. He stands proud in a room filled with heathens and brags about his mindless slaughter of Athelstan’s brothers. Talks of treasure as if that is all that matters and the peaceful monks who watched over it did not exist at all. As though the life of another human being is not even equal to that of a mouse.

Ragnar smirks that smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes, for they are full to the brim with fury. His eyes are the different in the dark gathering room (or is it a throne room?). The light bounces off of an amethyst iris, glinting like a gem in the moonlight. He is like the amethyst gems that Athelstan grew up with and was never allowed to touch.

 

 

 

When Ragnar Lothbrok invites Athelstan to his bed, it’s dark. His skin gleams gold in the dull firelight, gleaming off of skin dusted by hair and sweat. Pale slashes weave across his chest, caressing his ribs and hips. One line traces the slope of his pelvis, cutting close to his penis. Athelstan catches a glimpse of slick skin and dark hair before averting his eyes and praying fervently for forgiveness. He does not know who he prays to, but he will even pray to Pagan gods if they can free him from Ragnar’s gaze. Lagertha appears at Ragnar’s back, and Ragnar darts forward, throwing himself down on Athelstan’s bed and turning to face his wife.

Athelstan stammers through an apology as gracefully as he can, trying desperately to keep his gaze off of Lagertha’s smooth legs and Ragnar’s marred chest. He finds Ragnar’s eyes instead, finds hunger and darkness swallowing all but the smallest ring of royal blue.

 

 

 

The sky is churning.

Athelstan's sandals crunch on the stony river bank, robe catching in the breeze. It lifts as though grabbed by the Devil himself, and Athelstan hunches his shoulders forward, lips forming clumsily around the familiar syllables of his Latin incantations. The cold settles into his skin and creeps in through his open mouth, seeping past his eyes and sliding down his nose. Once, Athelstan would have called this an invasion of sin. Would have prayed and sang to keep the heathens' creations from squeezing in past God's perfect work. Now, his mouth wraps around the Latin by wrote, even as his lips twitch wildly in the cold, breath stuttering out of his lungs. Athelstan stops, the river threatening to drench his sandals and consume his toes, God's toes. He doesn't bother taking a step towards the farm house, merely watches the figure sitting atop the cliff to the north of the farm. Watches wind and cloud, God's wrath made tangible, grab furiously at Ragnar's heavy cloak. Ragnar Lothbrok never moved a muscle, ever defiant of God's plan. The orchestrator of resistance and chaos and kindness and brotherhood.

When Ragnar returns, his eyes are the grey of steel, all blue chased away by the ice of vengeance. His gaze doesn't pin Athelstan, just sweeps over him, as if Ragnar's eyes will bring the wrath of his heathen gods down on Athelstan's head.

Good. He has no interest in grey steel.

 

 

 

When he accepts Rangar’s invitation to his bed, his eyes are the blue of a sapphire, light bouncing off of the many facets of him – warmth, compassion, fierceness, protectiveness, _love_ – and catching in the blue, drawn in as inexorably as Athelstan is.

 

 

 

When Athelstan stands to the side of the dais, Ragnar's eyes change again. The light is low in the court room, winter winds howling ferociously outside. The draft slips in through the gap beneath the door, candles flickering wildly over inked skin and intricate braids. The Raven on Rangar's head is stark against stubbly skin, yet it doesn't make the back of his throat itch like it used to. Now all he wants to do is run his fingers across Ragnar's jaw and into his hair, tracing the line of the tattoo and pulling roughly at his braid.

Ragnar's head tilts towards him, as it always does. Athelstan may be a slave for now, but he will be free soon, and every body knows it. They will always call his Christian, will always remember his robes and his tonsure. He doesn't care anymore, because when Ragnar glances over to him, his eyes carry the spirit of Odin. Fire dances in their depths, and his eyes are blue and orange swirling endlessly, filled with the knowledge of ages. With the desire to know more. For once, Athelstan does not see that spark of lust in the wrinkles of his cheeks. Floki's voice shivers through his ears, weaving glorious tales of Odin and Thor and the twisted boughs of the knowledge tree. Lightning flashes before him, battle cries rushing through his head, and black feathers brush his skin.

Athelstan dips his head, keeping his eyes steady as he mouths, _pulcher es, O acutus Odin_.

A smirk pulls at the corner of Ragnar's lips. Odin vanishes in a flash of candlelight and a flicker of shadow. Ragnar's eyes scorch over him, the deep blue of the ocean on a Summer's day. Something tingles in Athelstan's gut and he smiles back, Latin tangling at the back of his throat. Ragnar has no idea what Athelstan said, but Odin does, and that's enough. 

**Author's Note:**

> Latin translates to: you are beautiful, o clever Odin.


End file.
